


If It's the End of the Line...

by Fenix21



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s11e17 Red Meat, Gen, One Shot, Spoilers, dean being a martyr, episode coda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-31 02:28:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6451873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fenix21/pseuds/Fenix21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>He'd forgone a bowl of soup for the numbing elixir because his brain was still working in overdrive, replaying images of Sam dead (or what he'd been sure at the time had been dead) on the floor of that station in the park, and of Billy reissuing her threat to drop them both in the Big Empty, whatever the hell that actually meant, and Michelle's overflowing eyes when she'd finally garnered enough strength to get up out of the waiting room chair and walk out of the clinic. </em>
  <br/>
</p><p>Dean and Sam have a little chat about what Dean <em>really</em> did when he thought Sam was dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If It's the End of the Line...

**Author's Note:**

> I have to say I was ultimately a little pissed at the end of this episode, and I was very disheartened by Dean's little white lie to Sam about knowing he wasn't dead, because what Dean meant by that line and how Sam could have heard it? Two different things.  
> 
> 
> Also, the end kind of drops off, but I was headed toward Wincest territory at that point, and while I'm sure most of us would have been just fine with my continuing in that vein, I did want this one to stay pretty plutonic between the boys this time.

Dean set the bowl of homemade chicken soup beside Sam's elbow within easy reach, but far enough away that a random move to his pencil to take notes wouldn't upend it, then settled in across the table to wait and see how long it took for his brother to notice it was even there.

The minutes ticked by.

'You're drinking again.'

Sam said it without looking up, so quietly, Dean had to stop for a second to be sure he'd even heard anything. He looked down at the glass in his hand, still mostly full of the two fingers worth of bourbon he'd poured idly swirling in the bottom as he turned it. He'd forgone a bowl of soup for the numbing elixir because his brain was still working in overdrive, replaying images of Sam dead (or what he'd been sure at the time had been dead) on the floor of that station in the park, and of Billy reissuing her threat to drop them both in the Big Empty, whatever the hell that actually meant, and Michelle's overflowing eyes when she'd finally garnered enough strength to get up out of the waiting room chair and walk out of the clinic. 

Dean's heart ached for her. Newly married and already a widow, going home to try and live a life that no longer existed, or rebuild a new one, and with the certain knowledge that monsters were very real and there were fewer heroes in the world who knew how to fight them than fairytales might lead one to believe. He was sure Sam could have offered some more articulate words of condolence to her. All Dean had been able to tell her was to get back on her feet and stay safe, and he felt bad for that, inadequate.

As if that was anything new. He was feeling pretty inadequate on a lot of levels right now.

'Yeah,' he finally answered, slugging back half of what was left in the glass and leaning back in the chair with a heavy sigh.

Sam very deliberately closed his laptop and pushed away the pad and pencil beside him, looked at the bowl of still steaming soup for a long minute, then closed his eyes and let out a long, slow breath. Dean tensed up immediately because that was always a precursor to one of their 'talks' and he wasn't sure he was in the mood, or had enough bourbon left, for that right now.

'Dean. What did you do?' Sam said, voice still quiet, scarily calm. He was keeping his eyes closed, waiting for Dean's answer, very carefully not looking at him.

Dean took another swallow of bourbon and pretended not to know what Sam was talking about. 'Do? When, now? I just fixed you homemade chicken noodle soup, so you better eat it. You need to get your strength back up. No good to either of us in the title fight if you're suffering from malnutrition.'

Dean flinched at his own words, Billy's coming back to him, _Even if Sam could win the title belt…_ He hadn't meant to use that particular phrase. He downed the last of his drink and made to get up for more.

Sam's hand shot out and grabbed Dean's wrist, pinning it to the table with a tenuous, shaky strength, but enough that Dean would have had to wrench Sam's arm to get free, so he stayed where he was.

'What. Did you. Do,' Sam repeated, bringing his gaze up slowly. 'Because you left me there on that floor, and I know you would never have done that if there had been even the tiniest of doubts in your mind that I was still alive.'

Dean didn't think Sam even realized it, but his eyes were filling up as he talked, spilling over, and Dean  could see him fighting the tremble in his bottom lip. It occurred to him then just exactly what his words outside the clinic had meant. He had said them in reassurance to Sam that he hadn't gone off the deep end of the crazy pool to try and get Sam back because he'd known all along that he wasn't dead. What Sam heard, though, was entirely different. _I knew you weren't dead. I knew. But I left you lay there anyway._

It didn't matter that Sam had told him to go, and Dean knew that damn well. They could tell each other all they liked to leave the fallen man behind, to go be safe, to live to fight another day, but it was all so much garbage. Deep down, on the levels left unspoken, they both knew that neither of them would ever abandon the other while there was any kind of chance they could be saved, and for a Winchester? That left a lot of open territory. 

So, it followed that Dean _had_ believed Sam was dead, and knowing that, together with the ever-present knowledge that Billy the Reaper was waiting in the wings to make good on her no-returns policy, Sam could easily deduce Dean had indeed done something insane to ensure Sam's continued survival. 

Dean relaxed his grip on his glass and carefully turned his wrist out of Sam's fingers. Sam let him go reluctantly.

'I, uh, had a chat with Billy,' Dean started.

'A chat.' Sam lifted a brow. 'How did you do that, in a clinic, with none of the stuff you'd need to summon a Reaper? Not to mention, you couldn't be guaranteed to get _her_.'

Dean smiled weakly, catching Sam's eye for a moment and then sliding away. 'I took a shortcut.'

'Took a shortcut…?' Sam frowned. Dean counted silently in his head and didn't even make two and a half before Sam was out of his chair hissing and spitting like a mad cat. 'You killed yourself?! What the hell were you _thinking_?'

Dean stayed calm, eyes on the glass between his hands. 'Wasn't doin' a whole lot of that, I suppose.' He lifted his gaze to meet Sam's. 'I generally don't where you're concerned.'

Sam deflated, the fury in his eyes draining away to be replaced with a heart-deep ache. Unfortunately, it took with it his ignorance of the pain his sudden move had caused and he grimaced, pressing a hand to his side. He dropped forward with a bitten off hiss of pain, catching himself with one hand on the tabletop, and Dean was on his feet.

'Sam?'

'I'm good,' he said, forcing himself up straight for a moment. He was about two shades paler than he had been a moment ago.

'Sit your ass down before you tear those stitches,' Dean commanded. He kept hold of Sam's elbow until he was back in his chair and breathing slow and deep to get a grip on the pain until it ebbed. When he was sure Sam wasn't going to pass out, he made to move, but Sam caught at his hand and held him fast.

'Dean, you can't do shit like that,' Sam whispered. 'What if they couldn't bring you back?'

Dean sighed and pinched between his eyes with his free hand, settled a hip on the table, because it was obvious Sam wasn't letting this go right away, wasn't letting _him_ go either. He turned his hand in Sam's so he could thread their fingers together.

'Had to get you back, little brother.'

'Yeah, but Dean,' Sam squeezed his hand hard to get his full attention. 'What do you think I would have done without you?'

Dean didn't have an answer for that, but he speculated it would have been pretty close to what he himself had attempted. 

Death had been sure Sam wouldn't rest until Dean was safe and alive and by his side, hence the trying to remove Sam from the field of play when Dean still had the Mark on him; and he was probably right. Although, Sam would have found a smarter way to get him back, one that didn't involve dying himself, Dean was sure, because Sam was smart like that. That's why it was important that he be the one to survive this if only one of them could.

'I think you would have gone out there and ganked the Darkness, saved the world, and lived a long and happy life,' Dean said with a cursory grin.

Sam scowled and punched at Dean's thigh with their joined hands. 'Not so much.'

'Sam,' Dean said, face gone serious, eyes intense. ' _You_ have a chance to stop her. We already know I can't. Whether I want to or not, she gets close? And all bets are off. So, it has to be you. Whether I make it out of this or not, doesn't matter.' Sam started to protest, but Dean forged on. 'I've had more chances than I ever should have been given—ever deserved—and it started with Dad.'

'Dean, don't.'

'Hear me out, Sam. I've been living on borrowed time for a good long while now, and if one of us has to go down in this, then it's going to be me,' Dean said. 'You've got something to offer the world, Sam. You can make something of yourself, of this,' he gestured briefly at the bunker. 'I'd just sit here and drink myself into a coma if you were gone and I couldn't get you back, and you know it.'

'And you think I wouldn't do the same?' Sam asked, black memories of bourbon and dark and the scent of burning summoning candles filtering up from a year ago when he'd sat almost exactly here and contemplated precisely what Dean was talking about.

'I know you wouldn't. Not if there was no chance of getting me back.' Dean smiled a little to soften the blow of his next words. 'You've done it before.' 

Sam jerked his hand free with a broken sound in the back of his throat, but Dean just reached out to grab his elbow before he could escape. 

'Sammy, it's okay. I'm not blaming you. I told you I forgave you a long time ago—'

'Doesn't mean I forgave myself,' Sam mumbled.

'Well, you should,' Dean said firmly. 'And when I go this time, there isn't going to be any way or any _thing_ to bring back. We both know that.'

'Then you're just not going,' Sam said simply.

'Sam—'

'No! No. Goddammit, Dean, I'm tired of this!' Sam shoved his chair back from the table, the move a little less dramatic because it caused his side to light on fire again and he had to blow out a harsh breath though his nose to keep from groaning.

'Sam…' Dean leaned toward him, but Sam evaded his touch and stood up, gesticulating as wildly as only he could do when he was well and truly pissed about something while still keeping one hand tucked into his side where Dean was starting to fear he might tear open his stitches if he didn't calm down. 

'Dean, I am so tired of you pretending you're expendable!' he raged. 'You're not! You never were. Why the fuck do you think Dad sacrificed himself for you, huh?'

'Because he screwed up in the first place and nearly got me killed?' Dean supplied.

'Well, yeah, there's that,' Sam admitted grudgingly but was back on fire again in a second. 'But he _knew_ I needed you. He didn't trust me, didn't trust what I might turn into, but he _could_ trust _you_. He knew you were the only one who could keep me in line, if it was even possible.'

'Did a bang up job on that one,' Dean muttered.

'Oh, fuck, Dean,' Sam tossed one hand in the air, exasperated. 'We are not turning this into a let's-see-how-many-times-Dean-Winchester-failed-to-save-his-baby-brother recrimination session, because guess what? I'm still alive! I'm standing right here, and if one of us has done any major screwing up, here, then hey! Check out the almost-boy-king-of-hell and Lucifer's liberator, who ran around soulless for nearly a year on an indiscriminate killing spree, deserted his brother to Purgatory, then failed to close the gates of Hell, and set loose the biggest, baddest entity of all time who just happens to be closely related to God himself and cannot, so far as we know, be killed!'

Sam was breathing heavily by the time he'd finished his rant, his fingers curling tight into his side, and he was leaning against one of the library stacks and sweating like he might drop at any second. Dean stood up and calmly took him by the shoulders and lead him back to the chair, one hand sliding across his chest to rest over his heart. It was beating a little fast, but strong and steady. Dean left his hand there, and a moment later, Sam covered it with his own.

'I'm sorry, Dean. I didn't…I didn't meant to go off like that. It's just that you keep thinking you're so unimportant, when you're the most important thing in the world.' Sam looked up into Dean's face. 'And not just to me, because if it weren't for you, I wouldn't be here. None of what I've done, that you seem to think is so great and worthy, would ever have happened if you weren't beside me every step of the way, Dean.'

Dean could only stare at him for a minute. 'Lot of bad's come from me being here, Sam. Half the shit that's gone down is because you were trying to save my ass.'

Sam nodded. 'Because if I didn't save you, Dean, then the world would lose both of us. "Ain't no me if there ain't no you,"' he quoted.

Dean rolled his eyes. 'I didn't actually say that, you know.'

'Yeah, I know,' Sam said with a small smile. 'But it's still valid.' He slotted his fingers between Dean's where their hands still rested together on his chest. 'I won't do this without you. This may be my life now, but without you? I couldn't do it— _wouldn't_ do it. So. If Billy and the Big Empty are all we've got waiting for us, that suits me fine, but we're going together.'

Dean pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, worrying it a little in thought before he finally nodded. 'All right, Sammy.'

'No more of this killing yourself crap to cut deals with Reapers,' Sam said. Dean nodded. 'And no more thinking you're just a dumb grunt built to go out there and fight and die.' Dean nodded again. 'And the next time you leave my ass to deal with two pureblood werewolves on my own while I'm damn near bled to death, you're doing my laundry for a week!'

Dean shoved Sam in the chest, half-heartedly, trying to hide a sudden smile. 'Like hell, bitch.'

Sam just grinned. 'Jerk.'


End file.
